You Know Nothing, Jon Snow

Tuesday. Lots of writing here in this journal, overall. Very little introspection, interestingly.  Some people write to explore and expose their thinking.  I kvetch.  Today, I am crawling deep into the shallows of my brain.

The truth is, I'm scared. Not simply scared of the cancer.  Nor am I simply scared of leaving--although truth be told I am scared of the idea of pulling up 30 year old roots and planting them down in a new planter-box with hope that my life will take root again and make sense.  I am not simply scared of losing Jenny forever. That has happened already, with her betrayal, her refusal to stop her betrayal as she is dying, and it will come again when she passes, and  yes, it simply scares me shitless. But this simple fear, this basic terror that wakes me in the night and keeps me from going back to sleep again is, I think, more existential.  Why do we do all this?  I mean all of it?  

If it is true that nearly 50% of relationships experience infidelity, and greater than 50% of marriages end in divorce, why do we do it?  This life is so transitory, and  yet we are almost all scared of the endpoint, encouraged to be so by popular culture. We latch on to partners, believing that fairy-tales do come true, despite the evidence in front of us. People tire of one another, hurt one another, get bored of life generally, were never serious to begin with, define themselves by conquest, drink too much and made bad decisions.  The reasons for infidelity seem legion.  But, really, the simple answer is, coupling is a construct.  There is no rule book for the universe.  We set our own social mores,  write our own fairy-tales, and are shocked when the two don't often live up to expectations--don't blend.

Meanwhile, here I sit, realizing this, and afraid that I am losing everything that defines me.  One way or another, I will be left alone again.  Have been left alone, and will be once more.  Over and again.  I don't say this to be sentimental or to be pitied.  This is the human condition.  I finally think I understand it as more than a concept to be discussed in dissecting a Saroyan novel.  I spent the better part of my late teens deep in angsty hardship, after Corey died.  2 parts depression, 1 part teen angst, 3 parts grief and 2 parts drug abuse, the sum was greater than the whole of its parts, obscuring the clarity.  

You think that I would, and that many of you reading this, would have made friends with loss.  I lost my father at age 2, my mother nearly 13 years ago, my best friend 37 years ago, hosts of kids befriended at MDA camp, and an assortment of friends and acquaintances along the way.  And while those of us who work or have worked with the dying deal with loss more than most, the wound doesn't ever scar over, at best its a scab ready to be ripped off by the next scrape with death.

So, this whole calliope turns and makes music which lulls us to sleep, while we do our best to deny that suffering is the human condition, and that respite from suffering is the best for which we can hope.  Put on top of all of this our own will to believe we are immortal in the face of such loss, and it explains how and why we can lie to ourselves as a first order condition.  

Pontius Pilate

Our self and societal lying isn't limited to death,  we have a Bob the Builder/Rosie the Riveter mentality, enough sweat equity and know-how and we can save the planet.  We ignore, at our peril, the very real threat our own actions are creating, and the greed that drives us to our own destruction.  We ignore our own bounded lives, our limited power. As Pilate said, when washing his hands, Ecce Homo.

So, does this innate need to lie to ourselves help drive my decisions here today?  Honestly, I don't know.  I want to believe I am doing this for selfless reasons, but find that it is rare that anyone is selfless, in the true sense of the word.  I went to camp for all those years because it fed me, helping others and being around people with a common shared experience.  I didn't, and don't view it as selfless.  In fact, if you were to tell me, as someone who went to camp, that you did it simply out of the goodness of your heart, I would have a difficult time believing it--especially given how many of the counselors coupled up at and after camp and how many life-long friends we made of the people for whom we cared and with whom we worked.

I tell myself, and anyone who will listen, I am staying because I love her.  I am staying because I made a vow.  I am staying because I hope she would do the same. I am staying because I want the children to understand their obligation to those who are suffering. I am staying because I don't want the burden of care to fall on my kids. I am staying because I fear the children will resent me if I leave. But also, I am staying because I don't know how to move from this position.  At base, it may be cowardice that drives me, maybe fear, or maybe just simple inertia.  Ultimately, I am staying because it's in my DNA. Whatever the encoding is, I fear what I don't know.  I fear the loss of love of my children. I fear loss.  I know nothing. And somewhere in there, is the lie I am telling myself, that this too shall pass, and all will then be o.k.